


Exhume

by vintagelilacs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, sad stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:23:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: He feels dirty, like his soul is full of grit. It's a sickness that he can’t expunge. A filthiness that he can’t scrub away. James Moriarty is the only one who understands what's wrong inside him, because he has it too.Alternatively, Sherlock finds solace in an unlikely source, and John is not pleased.





	Exhume

It's in bad taste to leave a wedding early, or so Sherlock is told. Even with the attempted murder of John's old army commander, it's still been an awful day, and he thinks it's a fair assessment that he's suffered enough. Sherlock slips out silently and without ceremony. Joyful music and sounds of revelry issue from the reception, but the din is soon replaced with the hum of city life and evening traffic. He doubts anyone will notice his absence until much, much later. If anyone does at all.

His hands twitch. There's an ache in his chest, a void he needs to fill before it consumes him. _Cocaine._ He banishes the thought, deletes the promise of relief and succour it carries. He can't. What would John say? He'd be upset. He'd... would he even notice? His attention is going to be largely focused on his wife from now on. How often will he even stop by? Probably not often enough for him to notice if Sherlock slips into old habits. 

Yet there's still a chance, albeit a slight one, that he will notice. And Sherlock can't let that happen. 

He delves a hand into his pocket, retrieving a cigarette pack. He's thankful he had the foresight to bring it. It's the next best thing to cocaine. Nicotine patches will obviously not suffice. Not on a night such as this. 

Up until now, he's consolidated himself with the possibility that John might break-off his wedding. Engagements are broken off all the time, it could still work out. And if not, fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. But he'd failed to account for the factor of a child, and how his and Mary's dynamic would shift. John's always considered himself a proper, honourable man. He would never leave Mary, not with a child involved.

Unless there were other factors. Intra-uterine fetal deaths are possible, after all. Or miscarriages. Or stillbirths. Bereaved parents have a slightly higher separation rate. It's not uncommon. 

Except, such a loss would devastate John. Sherlock's a horrible person for even entertaining the possibility. He doesn't truly wish ill on their child. He only wishes... 

No. No, it doesn't matter. Wishing is futile. It's beneath him. A lesser mind might indulge in what-if scenarios, but he knows better than to waste his time on platitudes. 

Sherlock trudges past buildings and alleyways, inhaling the fumes of nicotine, tar, formaldehyde, ammonia, hydrogen cyanide, arsenic, and the other thousands of chemicals present in cigarettes. He feels dirty, like his soul is full of grit. It's a sickness that he can’t expunge. A filthiness that he can’t scrub away.

He's about to round the next corner, when his legs lock in place. He hears music. The song transitions from a tranquil intro to an operatic segment, followed by a rock section. The transition is seamless. He's heard this song before. Its fast pace and the strong, melodic voice of the singer are indicative of mainstream music. Not the present day pop currently infecting the radio, but something older. Eighties music. No. _Seventies._ He never considered the band's name important enough to file away, but he knows someone who loves this type of music. _...put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead._

A punch of nausea knocks the breath from his lungs. No. No, it can't be. 

_Mama, life had just begun, but now I've gone and thrown it all away._ The music grows fainter. Either someone's turned the volume down, or the device issuing the song is moving further away. 

Sherlock chases after the music without a modicum of hesitation. He sprints down the street, his dress shoes pounding against the asphalt and gravel. He runs until his vision blurs, before finally turning into an alleyway. _Oh._

It's just a drunk woman playing her music aloud because she hasn't any headphones. He feels… cheated. And oddly disappointed. 

_'You deduced it was him solely because of the genre of music,'_ he chides himself. _'You've grown lazy. Careless. No wonder John doesn't—'_

“Aw, I'm terribly flattered." A soft voice drawls. "One would almost think you miss me.” 

Sherlock stiffens. The drunk woman falls flat on her arse. He does not make to assist her. Instead, he turns to meet the source of that lilting Irish accent. He drinks in the buoyant rhythm of the man's speech, the dangerous curve of his lips, and the manic glint in his deceptively warm eyes. James Moriarty.

"It is me you were hoping for, right? Oh, please say it was." 

“It's not possible,” he breathes.

“You’re so cute. But don't worry, I missed you too.” 

“You've been absent all this time.” 

Moriarty's hair is longer than it previously was, and he's sporting a five o'clock shadow that Sherlock grudgingly admits is rather attractive. He's changed, physically at least, but the change isn't so drastic that it unnerves him. Instead, it's oddly comforting. It's evidence that things can change without being completely transmuted. A new hairstyle, the addition of facial hair, a variation in weight or muscle tone—these are changes that Sherlock is able to reconcile. But the acquirement of a fiance, and later wife, is not as easy to accept. He wishes John was as constant as Moriarty. He wishes two years could pass and mean nothing. 

Moriarty gives a lackadaisical shrug. "It was your turn to call and I didn't want to look desperate." 

"Two years. I faked my death for two years and there was no sign of you." 

"You were starting to question whether or not I was still alive," he guesses. "Did you manage to convince yourself that the bullet to the brain scenario was real?" 

"Scenario? What scenario?" 

Moriarty claps his hands together, grinning at Sherlock as if he's been gifted some juicy tidbit that he doesn't quite know how to handle. "Tell me you remember our phone call?" 

"What phone call?" he grits out. 

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of Moriarty's throat, and his face lights up as if he's just won the lotto. "This is truly incredible. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but you never let me down, do you Sherlock?" 

Sherlock represses a shiver at how Moriarty utters his name. He always infuses those two syllables with so much emotion and passion. It falls from his tongue like music. Not the insipid mainstream clangor of the current era, but the age-old symphonies wrought by Bach, Chopin, or Schoenberg. "What are you going on about?" 

Moriarty shakes his head rapidly. "No, no. It's too good. I can't accept this."

"Tell me what you're blathering about," Sherlock orders. 

His command only garners him a smirk. "See, now I would tell you, but we have an audience," Moriarty gestures to the drunk woman. She's been trying to get to her feet for the past two and a half minutes, but with limited success. "And I think it would be quite rude discussing something so private out here in the open, you know?"

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw jumps, and it takes all the restraint he has not to grab Moriarty and throw him against the nearest wall. "What do you propose?" 

"Let me take you home with me," he says with a coquettish smile. 

None of his innuendo is lost on Sherlock. He frowns. "As enjoyable as spending alone time with a serial killer is, I think I'll take my chances out here." 

"Serial killer? Oh no, no don't do that." Moriarty leans in, well past the boundary of what society deems polite. They're close enough that Sherlock can feel the heat radiating from the man's body. His own body is unpleasantly chilled, frigid inside and out. "It's such an ordinary word. And we're not ordinary, are we? What was it you called me that one time?" He cocks his head, humming. "Oh! That's right. A _spider_. A spider in the center of a criminal web, but a web that has a thousand radiations, and I know every quiver of each of them."

"You took my description of you to heart. Now I'm flattered." 

Moriarty ignores his quip. "I'm a spider, as you said. And do you know what I want to feed on?" His gaze is molten, the brown of his irises nearly subsumed by his pupils. 

Sherlock swallows tightly. "I'm afraid I don't have the best insight into the twisted thoughts of a psychopath." 

The tenor of Moriarty's words shifts completely. "Come home with me, Sherlock." He sounds... sympathetic. Caring. Soft. "You look an absolute mess." 

Sherlock's hands curl into fists. How is it that Moriarty always knows? He'd spent an entire day faking a smile and no one batted an eye, but a few minutes with Moriarty and the man's already peered past his meticulous facade. 

"No one should have to deal with this alone," he adds. 

"Deal with what?" Sherlock snaps. 

Moriarty raises his hand. He moves slowly, like a hunter trying not to startle its prey. His fingers caress Sherlock's face with faux gentleness. "Heartbreak." 

"Please. You don't understand anything." Despite the abrasive quality of his voice, Sherlock makes no attempt to shy away. He's never craved physical touch more than he does now. This is what it's like to be wanted. To be desired. Not just physically, but for mental aspects as well. Moriarty knows him better than anyone because they're of the same breed. And there's something cathartic about having someone know you and still want you. Or even want you because of it.

"No? Then why don't you tell me about it?" 

Moriarty already knows about John's wedding. His timing is too perfect. But it's a relief to have someone see him, to have someone look at him and _know_. 

"Come on," he prods at Sherlock's cracking resolve. "I'll even fix you a nice cuppa." 

Sherlock conceals his emotions behind an impassive veneer. He banishes the frown from his lips, and forces the creases on his forehead to smooth. "Unfortunately, I'm not very partial towards tea." 

"Bollocks!" Moriarty exclaims in an exaggerated English accent. "What sort of Englishman are you if you don't fancy tea? Her majesty would have a right fit if she heard such blasphemy." He throws his head back and laughs, reverting to his authentic Irish brogue. "That's fine. I was lying about the tea, anyway. But I'll offer you something you can't turn down." 

Sherlock flicks a lock of hair out of his face. "Consider me intrigued," he intones with feigned boredom. 

Moriarty positions his mouth above Sherlock's ear. Warm breath tickles his sensitive skin. "I'm going to give you answers. Answers to everything. Answers to questions you don't even have yet." 

There's really no way Sherlock can reject such an offer, not even if he was at his best. He purses his lips, relenting. "Fine." He has a question poised on his tongue, but before he can utter it, Moriarty lunges forwards, trapping a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. 

_'You daft idiot,'_ he berates himself. He didn't even notice Morarty withdrawing the handkerchief. 

Sherlock gasps instinctively, and that innate response is his undoing. He has just enough time to realize he's been drugged, before his body crumples. His vision moves in shaky ripples, colour and sound blurring together. A pair of arms wrap around him, and even now, he thinks they're very comforting to sink into.

When Sherlock comes to, his throat feels desiccated. He's not sure how much time has passed, but he can tell from the partially boarded window that it's still dark out. He could have only been unconscious for an hour or two at most. He tries to lift his head, but his body is sluggish, his mind slow to react. 

"Sorry." He blinks Moriarty's face into focus. He's wincing, a perfect facsimile of someone genuinely apologetic. "Couldn't have you knowing where my secret lair is. Every good villain needs one."

Sherlock examines his surroundings. The walls are a farrago of clashing colours and wallpaper. An ornate mirror and an array of paintings, all of which are likely stolen, are mounted to the far wall. He can't discern a specific theme to the paintings, but he's sure there's a connection between them, albeit tenuous. "You've outdone yourself on the decor," he croaks. 

Moriarty grins. "Did you know," he begins lightly, "when you sass me like that, it makes me want to tear apart your vocal cords? Just thought you should know." 

"How charming." 

"I quite think so." 

Sherlock's tongue darts over his lips. Moriarty's eyes track the movement hungrily, and the man's attention isn't lost on him. "Y-you said you had answers." 

Moriarty smirks at the stutter he fails to hide. "I did, didn't I? " 

"If you could waste as little of my time as possible, I'd be much obliged." 

"Sorry Sherl, but I find I rather enjoy the foreplay." 

_'Don't react'_ , he warns himself. Don't give the bloody bastard what he wants. "Two years ago. St. Bart's rooftop."

"Ah yes, the day you jumped and your flappy coat flapped its last flap." 

Sherlock forces himself to meet Moriarty's stare. He needs to analyze his face, to pick out the subtle nuances in his expressions and closely examine each and every one of them. "I remember music. You were there. We spoke, and then you killed yourself with a bullet to the brain."

"So brilliant, and yet still so simple-minded," Moriarty sighs. "I was never on the rooftop with you."

"Explain." 

"I left you a mixtape—that's what lovers do, in case you were wondering—and a recording detailing how you were meant to die. But you missed the sound of my voice so bad that you decided to call me and negotiate. Blah blah blah."

"Negotiate what?" 

"I'd stated that if you didn't jump off the roof, I'd kill your detective friend and your landlady." 

"And John." 

"No, I stated quite plainly I was going to kill lil Johnny no matter what you did. He encroached on my territory—that's you, in case you couldn't tell—and that's not something I just forgive." 

"But you changed your mind." 

"Did I?"

"John's still alive." 

"Mm, yes your negotiation skills aren't entirely inept." 

"And just what did I negotiate?"

"You ensured me that if I agreed to let John Watson live, not only would you jump from the rooftop as promised, but you'd survive the fall and live to play another game with me." 

Sherlock's lips part. "I heard the gunshot. I saw you."

"That was another part of the deal. You said you'd write up a nice death scene for me to pacify your incompetent friends o'er at Scotland Yard. And you were quite convinced you'd be able to trick yourself into believing it, too. I didn't expect you to hold up that last part of the bargain, so colour me surprised." 

"But why? Why would I promise that? What could have been gained?" 

Moriarty circles him. "Maybe because you know me just as well as I know you. You know how I love to have the upperhand, especially over you." 

Sherlock hums. "Ah, of course. I knew you'd be swayed by the wonderful opportunity to monologue. It was the cherry on top of an already perfect ultimatum." And rewriting the memory wasn't just for Moriarty's benefit. It made it easier for him to stomach, too.

"Pretty sexy agreement we came up with, wasn't it?" 

He wrenches his gaze away. "I understand now."

"Do you think so?"

"I have my answers. There's nothing else you could offer me, so I think I'll take my leave." 

"You _reeeeally_ think there's nothing I could offer you?" His voice is practically dripping with suggestion. "Surely your imagination's not that lackluster."

His body pulls as taut as the strings on a violin. He stays silent, inviting Moriarty to elaborate. 

“You're not getting worked up from a bit of flirting, are you Sherlock?" Moriarty lounges beside him on the comforter. "I'd be disappointed, but then, you’re not the type to get down and dirty with strangers, are you? No, you’re rather picky about who you let soil your sheets. Kind of rude, if you ask me.” 

His teeth grind together. It'll cause enamel erosion if he doesn't unlock his jaw soon, but he can't manage to relax. “I didn’t, but thank you for your unwanted input.” 

“They still all view you as some unfeeling machine, don’t they? Even though you have a massive hard-on for John. Here I was thinking he was your pet, but he seems to have you trained pretty well.” 

Sherlock's heart clenches. The pain of it is almost unbearable, but such is the defect of love. "Don't talk about him."

"Oh, no need to get jealous; I have no interest in Johnny. I'm interested in you and what you need." 

He laughs, the sound harsh and without mirth. “And what is it that I need?” 

Jim inches forward, until they're inhaling the same oxygen. “A good hard fucking.”

Sherlock flinches. Even as he screws his face into a display of disgust, a twist of arousal coils low in his stomach. 

Moriarty drags his gaze up and down Sherlock's body, and the desire Sherlock feels is reflected back at him from his enemy's face. When he's finished appraising him, Moriarty leans in. "Those lips of yours are utterly obscene, you know." He traces them with his index finger. Sherlock wonders what it would be like for Moriarty to replace the touch of his finger with his mouth. "I know so many things you could do with them." 

"I have no interest in putting my lips anywhere near your genitals." 

"Sherlock!" Moriarty cries, scandalized. "I was going to suggest you sing me a ballad, or recite the complete works of Nietzsche. But I suppose the expectations of the guest always trump the plans of the host." 

Sherlock snorts derisively. "You've already surpassed my expectations." 

"What can I say? I live to please." 

"How did you manage that with a straight face?" 

"Your flirting's getting so bold. If I didn't know better, I'd almost wager that you're attracted to me?" 

His smirk slides off his face. He doesn't have a denial for that, not an honest one, and Moriarty is more than capable than seeing through his lies.

"Oh, wait. I _do_ know better." He presses his thumb against Sherlock's lips, applying firm pressure. Sherlock wets his lips with his tongue, the wet appendage gliding across the pad of Moriarty's thumb for a infinitesimal second. 

Moriarty's eyes grow hooded. “Never expected you to be interested in carnal pleasures. But every fairytale needs a good love story, doesn’t it?” With that, he leans in, slotting their mouths together with the assuredness of someone who's spent their entire life getting whatever they wanted. Jim Moriarty is not the type of man who ever has to settle. He does not set his sights on second place. He does not accept consolation prizes. 

Moriarty cups Sherlock's face with uncharacteristic gentleness, and warmth unfurls in his stomach. Three truths hit Sherlock at once. 

1\. He is being kissed by a psychotic murderer. 

2\. He is allowing it to happen. 

3\. He is even kissing back. 

He's not used to this. He's kissed before, he's gone down on his knees before, he's even allowed himself to engage in more explicit acts, but never for something as simple and mundane as pleasure or desire. There's always been a reason for his sexual escapades. For the sake of an experiment. To document signs of arousal. To witness first-hand why society is so obsessed with sexual intercourse. And for him to learn the most guarded parts of the human anatomy without having to pester Molly for one of her corpses. 

Sherlock severs the connection of their lips, gasping in air as if it were a commodity. "Moriarty-" he starts, but is cut off when the man in question nips at his lips. 

"Call me Jim. Not just out loud, either. I'm Jim to you now. It's much more intimate." 

"Jim," he acquiesces. He doesn't have the strength or care to argue, not now. Not when he's so lightheaded. If he wasn't already sitting, he's certain he would've fallen to his knees. 

Moriarty—no, Jim's—lips coast along his jaw. Sherlock tilts his head for better access, baring his skin to him, his soul. Jim traces an artful pattern along the expanse of his throat, before dragging his lips under his ear. Heated breath fans along his sensitive flesh and the slightest intimation of teeth run along his ear. Moriarty's ministrations raise gooseflesh along Sherlock's body. 

“You know I could bite your ears now?" Jim says casually, his tongue tracing the shell of his ear. "I could bite them and rip them clean off, and then I’d lap up all the blood that you spill just for me.”

“If ripping my ears off will spare me from listening to your incessant commentary, then by all means,” Sherlock deadpans. He feels Jim’s lips curve into a smile.

“You really are something, Sherlock. Something magnificent.”

“Let’s not waste our breath stating the obvious.” 

“Cocky,” Jim notes. “I wonder how cocky you’ll be with an actual cock shoved down your throat.”

“Why don’t you find out?” Sherlock drawls. It’s a wonder he manages to keep his voice so unaffected. His body is trembling, but as long as his voice is steady, he can cling to his facade. 

“Eager, are we?” 

“Hardly.” Jim cups his hand over Sherlock’s crotch, his other arm gripping his hip to prevent him from pulling away. “If this is you when you’re not eager, I can’t wait to see what you’re like when you’re excited.”

"We should stop," Sherlock says, and while he knows it to be a correct statement, he's not sure he agrees with it. 

“Come now, Sherlock. Don't look so put out. No matter how John fucks that bitch of his, I guarantee it won’t be as good as what I’m giving you.” 

“Don’t call her that.” Jim arches a questioning brow. “Mary,” Sherlock elaborates. “She… she’s not a bitch.” 

“Defending your opponent, how noble of you.”

“She’s not my opponent.” 

“No? Well, I suppose that’s accurate. She would be your opponent, if you hadn’t given up on the game so easily.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He’s arguing with a madman. There was no game between him and Mary, no competition. John’s not a prize, and if he was, Sherlock would never be capable of winning him. Any stake he had was lost when he allowed John to think he was dead for two years. It was entirely his fault. He drove the wedge between them. He fractured what could have been. He can’t fault John for moving on with his life. He’d deluded himself into thinking everything would work out. 

Jim closes his hand around Sherlock's throat, cutting off his air supply with bruising force. "Enough about John. He's so boring, if I think about him much longer I'm going to make the death scene you invented for me come true." Jim maintains the cruel pressure around his throat for a little while longer. Light and dark spots coruscate his vision. When Jim's grip finally goes lax, Sherlock gasps in a rattling breath. "So, Sherlock, how would you like to proceed?" 

"What?" he asks hoarsely. 

"Do you want to suck my cock? Do you want to dry hump each other like a pair of mindless animals? Or do you want me to fuck you properly?" 

The blood in his body is torn between rushing southwards or flooding his face. 

"No need for embarrassment," Jim strokes a hand over Sherlock's cheeks, as if his touch alone can remove the deepening blush. "You and I, we're above such useless, primitive emotions." 

His throat rumbles as he clears it. "The last one." 

"Mm," Jim ducks forward to mouth at the ring of bruises his hands have created around Sherlock's throat. "Knew you'd want it. You're a greedy little slag, aren't you Sherly?"

He doesn't dignify Jim's posit with a response. Instead, he focuses on surrendering himself to pleasure, on exulting in the dopamine that floods his nucleus accumbens. 

Jim takes his time preparing him. He explores him with careful reverence, as if Sherlock's body contains codes and ciphers needed to understand the very universe. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut when he feels a finger enter him. It's been too long since his body's been used for such purposes. His libido is lower than normal, and sexual desire is more often than not a hindrance, something unfortunate and unavoidable that distracts him from more important matters. 

Jim murmurs a mantra of _"beautiful, so tight, utterly magnificent,"_ repeating the same words like a broken record. Sherlock can't even find it in himself to mock the man. He plays Sherlock's body like an instrument, coaxing high gasping notes to fall from his mouth. 

"Condom," Sherlock reminds him, before their encounter gets any more heated.

Jim sighs as if it's some great inconvenience, but Sherlock's surprised to see the man already has a foil packet in hand. 

"Oh, I suppose you're right," Jim concedes. "Even criminal masterminds need to practice safe sex." 

Sherlock's lips twitch, but he sobers quickly.

"I mean, I know _I'm_ clean, but for all I know your perpetual boner for Doctor Watson is the result of some STD, and I really don't want to catch that."

"Go fuck yourself," Sherlock hisses. He's distantly appalled by his outburst. Not because of its vulgarity, but because of how unimaginative an insult it is. 

"Mm, I'd much rather fuck you."

When Jim finally enters him, all the breath is driven from Sherlock's lungs. His lungs cease to function, and he lies open-mouthed with a dumbstruck expression on his face. He feels, for lack of a better term, _full_. Jim assumes a brutal pace, forceful, but on the side of too slow. Sherlock claws at his back, trying to organize his thoughts into something coherent, but failing miserably. 

“Isn’t this beautiful?” Jim husks, each syllable tight with arousal. He presses his thumb to Sherlock’s hole, circling where he’s buried deep. He's stopped thrusting entirely. Sherlock squirms. He should’ve known Jim would torture him like this. The man doesn’t move, and when Sherlock tries to shift, firm hands hold his hips in place. “Look how we’re connected. The two most brilliant minds joined into one flesh. Do you know what this is Sherlock?”

He waits expectantly for an answer. 

“If I had to guess,” he gasps out, “I’d say anal sex.” 

“This is art. Modern art.” He pulls out before shoving himself back in with a ferocity that pulls a cry from Sherlock’s throat. “I wish I could stay inside you forever. Think of how perfect that would be. I could take you with me to meetings, keep you seated on my lap, buried inside you forever. Everyone would know that you're my bitch.” 

“Not sure,” he pants, “that’s possible. U-unless you’re planning on overdosing on Viagra.”

Jim gyrates his hips, and it takes all of Sherlock’s restraint not to rock back and meet his movements. A confident hand snakes around to Sherlock’s front, tugging at his dripping cock. He grunts, deliberating whether he should thrust up into the hand around him, or shove back against the cock delving inside him. 

“You’re such a naughty boy, Sherlock. Feel how hard you are just from this.” 

_Just from this._ If Sherlock had the energy, he’d hook his lips into a sneer.

“Before, with those puzzles and riddles I left you, I owned your mind. Now I own your body.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. A pang of some nameless emotion hits him. _But you will never own my heart._

Jim pistons his hips, drawing out a heady, cloying pleasure that dissolves his doubts and regrets. 

He feels himself teeter on a brink. He's going to come soon, any second now. He hopes Jim's reaction won't be too childish, but the man will probably delight in the knowledge that Sherlock came first. 

His thrusts abruptly stop.

Sherlock barely restrains a sob.

“Unfortunately, this isn’t quite doing it for me, I think.” Jim pulls out, and Sherlock gasps at the sudden loss. The hand still around his cock squeezes painfully, staving off his impending orgasm. Without warning, Jim rakes his hands down Sherlock’s chest, digging deep furrows into his skin. He’s too weak and lightheaded to properly ward off the act of petty violence, but he does cringe away from it. 

“Why are you looking at me like that, Sherly? Did you want something?” 

“You know bloody well what I want,” he hisses. 

“Do I?” he asks, eyes wide and guileless.

“Either fuck me or leave so I can take care of this myself.” 

“Hmm, I don’t think so. I’ve indulged you, so I think it’s only fair to let me get something out of this.”

Sherlock flicks his gaze to the man’s swollen cock. “Yes, you’ve clearly gotten nothing out of this interaction.”

“Daddy doesn’t like it when you talk back. I might have to send you to your room without dessert.”

“You’re positively repugnant.” 

Jim looks entirely too pleased with himself. “And yet you crave me. Then the heart always longs for that which is worst for it.” 

Sherlock doesn't offer a verbal response. He doesn't have an argument for that. In truth, his relationship to Jim is like that of a moth to a flame. Or a fly to a web. 

Jim doesn't seem perturbed by his silence. Instead, the man rummages for something. Sherlock debates making a run for it, but Jim returns before he can make a decision. And in his hand is a knife. 

Ah. Of course. How stupid he's been. Jim's probably going to carve him like a turkey and leave his body to be found by the police. He can already picture the headlines. _'Famous Detective Killed By Sex?'_ or _'The Reichenbach Hero Found Fucked to Death,'_ or perhaps best of all, _'The Infamous Sherlock Holmes allowed himself to be wooed by arch-nemesis James Moriarty who then proceeded to fuck and kill him, all because John Hamish Watson got married and broke his heart.'_ That last one might be a bit too wordy, but it seems a fair summation. 

"Do you know what I plan on doing with this?" Jim asks earnestly.

"Oh, I don't know. Planning on chopping vegetables?" 

Jim's smile is as sharp and ruthless as the knife he twirls in his hands. "I have something better in mind. I was thinking of leaving you a little IOU? What do you think?" 

Sherlock leans back casually, though his heart his hammering. “You’ll do whatever you want regardless of my feelings on the matter, so why bother asking?”

Jim tsks. “You couldn't be more wrong. I'm only interested in this if you are too.” 

“Why would bodily harm appeal to me?”

He gives a scandalized gasp. “I'm not going to harm you. I would never harm what's mine.” 

“I'm sure all your childhood toys would beg to differ.” 

Moriarty's smile stretches into a horrifying rictus. “If you're amenable, I’d like to brand you.”

“Excuse me?”

“A little water mark, a sign that you're mine." He runs a finger along the tip of the knife, drawing a thin line of blood over his own skin. "It'd be a teensy reminder of what you've felt tonight, of what it's like not to just exist, but to be alive. That's what you and I are really searching for, right?” 

Sherlock turns his head away. His throat constricts. He’d rather not watch this. “Fine. Do it.”

“Really?” Jim asks, delighted. 

“I don't care.”

“No, no, I think the problem is you care too much. But don't you worry. You'll enjoy this.” 

Jim straddles him, running his hands over Sherlock's bare chest almost reverently. His calloused palms briefly glance Sherlock's nipples, before settling over his heart. Sherlock tries not to groan at the skin-to-skin contact. Jim presses the tip of the blade to his chest, the metal providing a cold, chaste kiss. Sherlock doesn't open his eyes. When the knife finally does break the barrier of skin, he flinches in surprise. The cut stings, but it's only a minor discomfort. It hurts, but it's a pressure that Sherlock can feel, a reminder that he's alive. How ingenious. Even now, Jim knows just what he wants. 

_You deserve this. The pain._ He does. He does deserve it. He's dirty and wrong and a _freak_ and he'll never be good enough and Jim is the only one who understands. 

Jim carves three letters over his heart. Once he's satisfied with his work, he presses his lips to the cuts, and licks at the blood. Somehow, Sherlock's even harder than he was before. It doesn't take much more for him to achieve release. 

His vision goes white, his body shivering through the aftershocks. The pleasure center of his brain rewards him, flooding him with oxytocin and dopamine. He'll need to document his emotional and physical reactions later. When he has the time. And the energy... 

His grasp on consciousness eludes him, and he drifts into darkness, but in what feels like no time at all, his eyes flutter back open. There's a gentle hand in his hair. Jim presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead, and the comfort of it makes him start to cry. It's too gentle, too suggestive of genuine affection. 

"None of that," Jim chides. "It's far too ordinary, and I won't let you ruin such a perfect night." 

"Sorry," he chokes out, hating his body for betraying him. Why now? After all that, why is he crying now?

"You're not looking so well, Sherlock. Maybe I should keep you here. I'd take good care of you. I'd never let you go." 

He wills his tears to cease flowing. "I'm not staying." 

"What if I didn't give you a choice? What if I tied you up and kept you as my captive?"

"Don't you remember how this works? You play nice, or I don't play at all."

"Fine," Jim lips twist into a moue of discontent. "Do you prefer a blindfold, then? Or another round of drugs?" 

He struggles to follow Jim's train of thought. Ah, of course. "Drugs," he replies almost immediately. He doubts he'll manage to get much sleep tonight, and being drugged means not having to think for a while. It'll be a nice reprieve.

Jim's grin widens. "I thought so." 

This time, instead of forcing a cloth over his mouth, Jim proffers drugs in capsule form. Sherlock swallows them dry. They don't take long to work. His vision closes to a pinprick, and when he recovers, he's sitting on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. He has no memory of the journey home, but he remembers the events prior with perfect clarity. 

If it wasn't so chilly, he'd be tempted to spend the remainder of the night propped against the door, but he's already shaking from the cold. With a quiet groan, he trudges into his flat. Jim had the decency to redress him, but the buttons of his shirt are all mismatched. It was probably intentional. Sherlock unbuttons his shirt. The front of it is stained with blood. The cut Jim carved above his heart must have reopened. He discards the shirt on the floor. He doesn't need to concern himself with keeping the flat tidy, now that he lives alone. 

Unfortunately, he's not as alone as he initially thought. How remiss of him not to first observe his surroundings. He's getting sloppy. Or maybe the haze enshrouding his brain is a residual effect of the drugs. 

“Sherlock,” John chokes out, his jaw dropping comically wide. It's a wonder Sherlock didn't notice how the lights in the flat were already on. How could he miss that? "Sherlock--what happened?" 

Sherlock heaves a sigh. Oh, hell. This is the last damned thing he needs. Leave it to John to have such impeccable timing.

His former flatmate's eyes drag over him, taking in his disheveled appearance, and the bruises and gouges spanning across his chest. His eyes come to a stop above his heart, latching on to the letters IOU. The cut is bright and red against his pale flesh.

“Is that…? No. No.” 

He rolls his eyes. How very like John to disregard the evidence simply because it discomfits him. Such is the flaw of sentiment. 

“John, shouldn't you be consummating your marriage?” he frowns, picking a part the whirlwind of emotions flickering over John's face. “Oh. I see. You already have.”

“We are not talking about my sex life here, we are discussing yours.” 

“I don't see why we must.” 

"Did he force himself on you?” John bites out. A vein in his forehead sticks out. 

“It was consensual,” Sherlock informs. He's not sure if that makes this better or worse. 

“Jesus, Sherlock. He-he hurt you! You can't tell me he didn't.” 

“He hurt me, but not nearly as much as-” Sherlock cuts himself off. His eyes go as wide as freshly minted coins. What an idiot he is, nearly admitting his affections for John, and in such a callous manner. “Never mind.” 

“Who? Who hurt you Sherlock?” 

"Does it matter?" 

"You slept with a murderous lunatic! Yes, it matters, you git! I don't understand how you could be that bloody stupid.” 

Stupid? Hardly. But _desperate_ … yes, that is a fitting term.

“I don't need to tell you that this is wrong, do I? In fact this is… this is so fucked up! You told everyone he was dead. You said he blew his brains out in front of you.” 

“It was a lie. To make it believable, I even convinced myself it was true.”

“Really?" John folds his arms across his chest. "And just how did you manage that?” 

“Repetition. Self hypnosis. I had two years to rewrite the memory in my brain.”

“You rewrote your own memories,” he echoes dumbly. “How in the hell did you do that?” 

“It wasn't hard. It's a tactic I've used before.” 

"When?” 

Sherlock hesitates. 

“My God. You don't bloody remember, do you? You fucked with your own head and you don't even remember why.” John paces, his body taut with tension. “So what actually happened that day? You let him waltz off the rooftop?” 

He clears his throat. “He was never there. He left a mixtape, and a recording of his voice. I called him on his cell and we worked out an agreement. One in which I blocked out.” 

"His cell. You knew his cellphone number." 

"Of course, he gave it to me that day we met. You were there, when Molly introduced him as her boyfriend." 

"Fucking hell, Sherlock. But I guess that explains why his body was never recovered.” 

“That’s correct.” 

John rakes a hand through his hair. His sandy hair is already going grey. Sherlock wishes they could be together until it's gone fully grey, and for an eternity after that. “I'm so angry at you right now, I could… I could strangle you!” 

“You wouldn't be the first to try tonight.” He murmurs, rubbing absent fingers over the discolorations around his throat. His comment seems to physically strike John. 

“I-I wouldn't actually. I would never do anything to you.” 

“I know you wouldn't.” And that's the crux of the problem, isn't It? 

“Please let me help you. Why did… why would you let that happen to yourself?” 

He dismisses John's concern. “You can't help me.” 

“Alright,” he concedes. “Then please, would you help me understand?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. He can't bear to witness John's reaction, to see the man's opinion of him further polluted. “There is a sickness that's always infected me," he begins, "but I didn't realize I was contaminated until recently. Jim knew how to exhume that part of my soul. He exhumed it, and then he helped me rebury it." 

"Christ, you're not making any sense." 

His face crumples. "I'm… there's something wrong inside me, John. And he's the only one who understands because he has it too.” 

“There is nothing wrong with you,” John protests.

_Then why wasn't I good enough? Why couldn't you love me?_

“Leave,” he barks out sharply, clenching his eyes shut. He's shaking, but not from the cold. 

“What?” John balks. "Are you daft? Of course I'm not going to." 

“Please leave.” His mouth is a tremulous line. He still can't bring himself to open his eyes. If Jim was here, he'd comment on how boring Sherlock was being. And he'd be right. 

"Sherlock, anyone can see that you're not well." 

“Please," he hates how his voice cracks, hates that he's been reduced to begging. "Leave and don't speak to me." He echoes his words from that day on the rooftop. John had complied with his request then, and hopefully he will now. "Please, will you do this for me? Please, that's all I ask.” 

His request is met with silence. He doesn't open his eyes for a long time, but when he next looks up, the room is empty. He’s completely alone, and yet no more alone than he was at the wedding while surrounded by a mass of jubilant people. 

Sherlock dabs away the lingering blood on his chest. He fetches a clean shirt. He buttons it properly. He paces, until his feet come to a stop beside his violin case. 

His fingers curl around the instrument with the same reverence Jim had treated him with. Sherlock begins a haunting melody. The melancholic notes reverberate through the flat. His very soul bleeds into the melody. _Sickly. Dirty. Wrong._

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at writing something a bit darker than I usually do so.. sorry for this lol


End file.
